


Beckoning

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas sends his father to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beckoning

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are times, like this, when he grows bored of his guards, when the endless grandeur of his halls should be his to gaze alone, and he lingers far after the sun has set. He bids the others a goodnight, and most filter off to their beds, some out of the towering castle to gaze at the stars, and Thranduil lounges back in his high throne, luxuriating in the silence. Not even the river below can reach here, and there’s the whisper of the only true peace: the absence of life. Thranduil soaks in the majesty of his kingdom, no less grand—for all the missing jewels and the efforts of the dark—than it was the day he received it, so very long ago. 

And yet, not everyone heeds his words. He catches the echo of footsteps far in the distance, though they’re hushed, faint, as only an elf’s can be. He recognizes their gate in an instant, and he sighs to himself; of course, he should have known. He’s been missed. He watches the trim form of his son sweep onto the twisted road, and over the pit, their eyes connect, hold and acknowledge, though Legolas’ stride never falters. He gracefully weaves his way amongst the tall columns, reaches the steps and ascends them, pale hair aglow in the low light of the lanterns. He’s beautiful, as he always is, made better by the bow that follows: a formal show of submission. Alone, like this, it’s for no one’s benefit but Thranduil’s, and it makes him smile in spite of himself, passive and pleased. 

When Legolas straightens, tall and proud again as the prince he is, he says, “I’ve come to bid you rest.” He’s still in his clothes himself, green, hunting things, but perhaps that’s part of his message: an invitation for Thranduil to come and strip him of his day clothes. An alluring promise, though arriving in his night robes might’ve been more tempting. Perhaps at the way Thranduil’s eyes are sweeping his body, Legolas extends his hand and offers, “I will go with you, if you permit.” As though Thranduil would ever deny him that right. 

But tonight, Thranduil has made up his mind to enjoy the quiet hours alone, and he waves his hand in dismissal. “I’m using the time to think,” he declares in a bored, immovable tone, “surely you would not deny me that.” Legolas takes only a moment to survey the hall and the absence of guards anywhere at all. Even the quietest elf still breathes, though Thranduil doesn’t find Legolas’ noises nearly so disruptive. When Legolas steps forward, a few strands of his long, yellow-white hair brush down over his shoulders, and even the hushed slip of that sets into Thranduil’s skin. There is no beauty in this world, no grace, that can match himself, save his son: the man that he created. Every little breath that Legolas inhales, every small movement of feet, even the falling of his eyelashes, holds a value more precious than all the white jewels in a dragon’s hoard. Sometimes it pains Thranduil to know there’s any distance between them at all, and other times he’s filled with pride, for this gorgeous creature before him is _his_ and his alone, in a way that no other man could match. Legolas takes that final step to put his toes at the hem of Thranduil’s robe. 

And then he’s sinking down like a falling star, slipping sensually to his knees, head bowing so near that his forehead brushes the silver fabric across Thranduil’s knees. Legolas doesn’t wear his crown enough, and here, Thranduil is sad for it, as there’s nothing so delightful as seeing a strong, handsome prince sit at his feet. Legolas asks again, soft as Elven-silk, “Come to bed, father.” It isn’t so much a question as a plea.

And if there’s one thing Thranduil loves, it’s having beautiful men beg him for the time of day. Legolas, of course, makes the sultriest pleas of all, and it’s growing difficult for Thranduil to refuse. Especially when Legolas places one hand on his knee, warm and delicate through the thin fabric of his robes, to whisper, “I don’t only ask for your well being, but for my own.”

“As I have done without you for the past two nights,” Thranduil notes, for he had no idea that Legolas would even return tonight. Such is the nature of hunts in the ever-changing woods, and Legolas is far past the age of needing to check in. Thranduil’s bed always seems larger, perhaps even _too_ grand, on these occasions, when he has no son to lie between his sheets and keep the other side warm. For the merest fraction of a second, a flame passes across Legolas’ bright eyes, perhaps regret or guilt, more likely pride at being missed. He is honoured, of course, to have the attentions of his king. He tells Thranduil so often, and now he ducks his head as though to apologize for failing to tame his king’s desires in the past days. But he’s home, now, and they’ll correct it soon enough. 

Thranduil decides, as he tilts his head to the side to rest in one lazy palm: “I suppose... I could be tempted.” His foot, flat against the floor, moves forward a few centimeters, along Legolas’ side. It gives more of the illusion that Legolas is between his legs, and Legolas’ eyes light in understanding. His lips part, and he lifts higher on his knees, his hands resting on Thranduil’s sides. He tilts his head as though he wants to be kissed, and Thranduil is tempted to oblige. 

But he’s gotten comfortable, and instead simply enjoys the sight of his lovely child, wanton and wanting. Legolas quickly realizes he won’t be indulged and holds the pose only long enough for Thranduil to enjoy the view. 

Then he sinks back down, runs his hands up Thranduil’s lap, and parts the silver fabric like water at a crossroads. As Legolas’ chest presses tighter to the base of the throne, Thranduil’s thighs are forced to part around it, and the crossed laces over Thranduil’s crotch are the only things in their way. Legolas hands quickly unweave the corset binding, releasing the pressure that’s kept Thranduil’s arousal at bay, and Thranduil has to turn his head and suppress his shiver as that exposure runs through him. He has missed this. An eternal life makes dry spells no less cumbersome, especially when one’s become accustomed to such skilled attentions. 

Legolas slips his nimble fingers inside the open material, wraps around the thick shaft of Thranduil’s cock, and frees it out into the air. Legolas is the first one to have his breath hitch, and he leans forward across Thranduil’s lap, inhaling deeply. The pleasure the scent brings him washes all across his face, his pale cheeks flushing a faint rose, his lips opening wider and his lashes fluttering down. Perhaps he missed this, too, out in the woods with only commoners to look at. Only one royal is fit for another, and for a moment, Legolas is quiet in reverence. 

The great halls of Thranduil’s kingdom seem to dissipate away, fade outside this moment, and should any elf rise to view the king’s throne, the magic will obscure their show. The king’s intimacy is his own. Legolas dips his fingers down the base of Thranduil’s cock, blunt nails gently scraping the skin, soft finger pads a pleasant counterpoint. They lock around the wide girth to hold the long shaft steady, thumb petting through thin, blond down.

Then Legolas presses a chaste kiss to the head of his father’s cock, and Thranduil releases a sigh. The feather-soft touch gives him more pleasure than any amount of treasure ever could, and he has to wonder why he ever lets Legolas leave his sight at all. 

Legolas swipes his tongue up the tiny mouth of Thranduil’s tip, just the way he knows his father likes. A small bead forms out of the slit, which Legolas smoothly laps away, swallowing down his throat like so many drops before, the seed that made him always welcome in his stomach. At first, all he does is these little licks, small, gentle strokes around Thranduil’s peach-hued foreskin, and closed-mouth kisses smeared across the head, plush lips nuzzling unhurriedly back and forth. Thranduil is a man of time, and though he’s no longer as youthful as his lover, he could engage in foreplay for hours upon hours, though, perhaps, not in the regal, rigid confines of his throne. 

Legolas finally opens his mouth wide enough to take more than swipes of his tongue, and descends down Thranduil’s shaft with a practiced skill that would make any pleasure servant jealous. He slides halfway down, lips stretch wide around Thranduil’s impressive girth, tongue flat along the underside and dilated eyes peering up through half-lidded lashes. He closes them as he pulls back again, leaving a glistening wet trail of saliva and pink-warmed skin in his wake. 

When Legolas’ mouth is released, a thin, transparent string drapes between it and Thranduil’s cock, which Legolas doesn’t break. 

Thranduil sighs, “You’ve convinced me.” Because as much as he loves taking his son in his throne, he wants now to lay Legolas down in satin sheets and claim him beneath the stars. 

Legolas dips his head in understanding and curls his hand around Thranduil’s shaft as he withdraws his fingers, wiping the underside clean. Then he tucks his father back in and reties up the laces with only slightly more haste than usual. The robes fall back into place, and Legolas looks up for permission to rise. 

Thranduil bids so with an outstretched hand. Legolas takes it as he stands, uncoiling elegantly back to his feet before stepping back to give Thranduil room to stand. There, the grip changes, but their hands stay clasped, and they trail down the winding steps together, the greatest gems in the night.


End file.
